Owning a farm is like having a newborn...

Owning a farm is like having a newborn baby.

Don't believe it?...
Take a look at this:

Exhaustion is your only sure bet since the "baby" came into your life.

Your body hurts.

Constant attention is needed to keep your baby happy.

There's never enough time to spend on yourself.

You realize you are suddenly going broke from taking care of it.

In bed at midnight, up at 5 am.

You keep asking yourself, "Why did I do this, again?"

You thought you were busy before you had the "baby".

Your life is never going to be the same; you can't give this thing back.

Discipline builds character.  (Mainly in you, not the "baby").

It needs you to nourish, feed, cultivate and grow it up.

It has a mind of it's own.

Relatives never offer to help.

You don't have time to go to the bathroom.

Your work is never done.

You never see your friends anymore.  

You're lucky if you have time for a peanut butter sandwich.

All you want to do is take a nap.

It brings intense heartache, immense joy, and every extreme emotion in between.

It makes you cry.

Its the best thing you ever did.

You can't imagine your life without it.

And...
No one will date you because you have a "baby" and everyone knows you're really just looking for someone to help with the baby every... single... day... forever and ever.  Amen.

The whole world and your mother told you that having a "baby" was a lot of hard work, but you didn't listen, did you?

No, you didn't.

The things you think about out in the garden...

The lovely Lynne Knowlton, Designer Extraordinaire, posted a random thought on her FB page recently..."Do you have any memories about your haircuts as a kid?"

Boy, Do I!

...and this picture tells it all...

Yep, my tiny Italian grandfather was a barber.  He gave us all the same doo.

(Someone needs to tell him bangs were not intended to be that damn short!  I believe the reason being was that he hated hair in kids eyes, as did my mom.  I am certain she was behind this!)

How I loved to sit up high in that barber chair with the old fashioned leather and iron booster seat... and how I hated the snip, snip, snip of those sharp shears of his sounding way too close to my tiny ears.  

I screamed "OUCH!" on more than one occasion and I wasn't alone.  We all prayed for mercy in that chair..."Dear God, Jesus, Mary, SOMEBODY help me!"

His barber shop was in the front enclosed porch of his house with an authentic barber pole hanging outside and two cool old barber chairs he would pump up with a foot pedal.  

Playing there was forbidden, of course, but oh, so very fun!

"Spin me around in that chair some more, please!"

...Next came the strap. Speaking of ouch...

Thinking on that took me to other random thoughts of little people...and shoes.

{Just face it, women never stop thinking about shoes. Ever.}

Not "little people" as in midgets or dwarfs, but little people in, "What the hell happened that made everyone shrink?"

I saw many of my parents' friends and family in January and have been stumped ever since.  That was when my father passed away and I was totally amazed at the size of everyone in the room.  I honesty felt like the Jolly Green Giant with heels on.  I had to bend way, way over to hug and look them in the eye when they gave me their condolences.  They all said the same thing, 

"You kids have gotten SO big!"  

{No kidding! They could stand in for the munchkins in "The Wizard of Oz".  Repeat after me, people, "We represent...".}

So, what the hell happened?

Is it osteoporosis?  Is it normal shrinkage? 

What?  

Whatever it is, I refuse to let this happen to me.

So, I am never, ever getting rid of my heels.

What do you think about when you're out in the garden, huh?

The first market of the year is right on cue....aka; people never cease to amaze me.

You gotta love the general public...mostly for their uniqueness and originality.  (If you can't laugh at their antics, you'd be in the slammer for hurting one of them, I swear.)

Take the farmer's market.   

{Not literally.}

Last year I made a list of humorous and unforeseen incidents that still, to this day, keep me laughing hysterically.  (It could become a farmer-comedy-routine at the next sustainable agriculture symposium,)

Take the farmer in the tent next to me that walked up to me last fall and loudly proclaimed, "I hope you can tell me what's causing my nuts to shrivel up this year!"

What can you say to that?  Keeping eye contact was hard enough...

Then there was the sweet gal that ate my 2-day old display of hardened chiabata bread...oven hardened for hours and dried for days to stand up to my lovely display of tomatoes, basil and olive oil.  She told everyone how great it tasted as my jaw stood dropped-open trying to find the words to tell her it was not for sampling, when a really, really old guy picked up the last piece, trying to bite into that simulated brick with his dentures.  

The artisan baker next to me was literally laughing for two weeks over the very pained look on his face.

One of my favorite antics came from Chester...an adorable, very well-behaved and beautifully trained dog that has become my "good omen" ever since he christened my table on the very first day I was at this market.  He lifted his leg on my tablecloth (the one with the most delightful Italian words and pictures of fruit and olives in all the right colors for my farm theme) and he shamelessly "marked his territory'.  Apparently, I'm his from now on.

So, last Saturday, at the first market of the year, it was a beautiful 73-75 or so degree day, full sun and a record turnout...what could possibly happen to add to my list of bad, badly behaved market goers?

{I shouldn't be surprised, but every time it happens I sit here shaking my head.  No! Not again!}

A professional gardener, who has become a friend (and brings me delicious homemade breakfast bars on occasion) apparently couldn't take it any longer and came up to my table saying, "No one knows how to market anything", and started rearranging my table! 

(Hello...Did she know I was standing right there?)  She meant well, and actually, I did take her "suggestions" constructively and rearranged it myself the following week. Quite an improvement I'd say but her delivery...oh my, her delivery could use a bit of...shall we say, tweaking!
{Still, bring on the breakfast bars, my friend!}

My favorite thing that happened was a quirky little comment that Chester's master made to his lovely wife when I told her, "Watch out for the big (grapevine) balls hanging on the tent!", as she dodged her way to the table to say hello.

"I just said that to her earlier this morning..." was all he said.  She turned beet red.

It will be a great year...

Bird in the Nest, minus the bird...

If you have ever visited Wilmington, NC, you may have stumbled upon one of my favorite spots, "La Gemma Fine Italian Pastries".  I know why they call it Fine Italian Pastries because they are so very, very F.I.N.E!  

(aka,

FABULOUS. 

INCREDIBLE. 

NAUGHTY.

EXQUISITE.)

(Just check out the pictures on their FB page...

https://www.facebook.com/lagemmaitalianpastries)

I had to go there today (to Wilmington, not La Gemma, although I think it is a necessity.)

I did what any woman with a conscience would do; had a salad for lunch...

 and went straight to La Gemma, bought three cookies and some wonderful custard-filled
delightful pastry!  

When I go there, it takes me back to my childhood in NY state.  My mom would buy flaky, 

mouth-watering Italian pastries for every occasion that strangely seemed to revolve 

around the Catholic Church...First Communions, Confirmations, Weddings, etc.

And, everyone always baked the most delicious authentic Italian cookies.  No table was complete without a platter!  I have no idea how I managed to remain a stick figure with all my teeth back then.

Every Easter there was a very special Bird in a Nest cookie that my Grandmother made.  We all got one; a huge 8-inch biscuit cookie with a hard-boiled egg in the middle, slathered with 1 inch of sweet icing and covered with sprinkles. Apparently the bird never survived the oven because it was supposed to be sitting on top of the nest.  (I doubt my Grandmother had Michelangelo's talent, so I'm sure that contributed to it's absence.)

That one cookie weighed about 5 pounds, was hard as a rock and lasted us until the fourth of July.  

(...I'm sure the Church had something special happening that day, no doubt!)

Don't be fooled...it aint easy

So, I am on this sustainability "kick".  

I don't mean to be glib, but at first it felt so perfectly delightful to say sustainability was my goal, as if the very words made all things pure and oh so right.  I got all pumped up after hearing some well- versed speakers share the topic at a sustainable ag symposium I recently attended. It is a lovely green concept and everyone's buzz word in the farming business.  

"Sustainability...let's all do it!"

(It's sorta like my daughter deciding to go all organic and everything, not just her food, had to be organic;  make up, cleaners, clothing, bedding, organic cat litter for the all-organic cat poop. I imagined my future toe-headed grandkids running around barefoot in flour sack tunics...)

But words are just words.  

It's the actions that make sustainability work and let me tell you, it ain't easy.

In case you didn't get that...IT AIN'T EASY!

For instance, I have recently adopted a "no-till" stance for my garden beds.  Hand turning, mulch and cover crops take the place of incorporating man's invention that changed the course of history...aka the tractor.  (Alright, so I don't even have a tractor, but I was thinking of getting one and even checking out Craigslist on a daily basis.) Instead I saved myself some money and spared my dirt from being over-worked and over-tilled, depleting all its nutrients.  

Fine.

My back is now screaming for synthetic pharmaceuticals from all the hard manual labor removing the sod and digging down deep.  The end result is a gorgeous garden bed I can be proud of but, gotta say, this journey is HARD.  Those vegetables better grow, or else.

I will continue doing the sustainability "thing", but I may go kicking and screaming.  

I may have to convince myself from time to time it's the right thing to do when no one but me is here to get it all done.  (The dogs could really care less.)

Those well-versed speakers have been there...they know it is hard, back breaking and tough. No one wants to hear that, so they just don't mention it.  

(No kidding, everyone would get up and walk out on them.)

 Like anything worth having, it's well worth the effort and, like I've taught my children, it builds character to accomplish a goal with hard work. The end result is more than a mere buzz word, it is a way of life that is better for everyone on this earth.

...Just pass me the pharmaceuticals.

Weathervanes vs. the weather channel...

Once upon a time, in a time not long ago, 

(before the Weather Channel), 

farmers looked to their weathervane to forecast the weather.  

Blowing in from the south?  That meant warm, moist conditions are coming.  

Blowing in from the chilly north?  None other than cold and dry weather will be rolling down the pike.  And if the weathervane abruptly changed directions, something big was about to blow in... 

and it wasn't Mary Poppins!

We look at weathervanes a bit differently these days.  They are whimsical and decorative, adding just that touch of class to a lovely roof line or garden focal point.  Their intended purpose has completely changed, now that we can watch 24-7 real time weather coverage anywhere and anytime.  (Remember when that all first started?  "How can you have an entire channel devoted just to weather?", we all thought!  Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, were we wrong!)

Weathervanes come in just about any shape if you are still in the market for one.  I came across this one that I thought might be appropriate for myself.  

(I don't have cable.)

Salud!

The race is on!

May is Nascar month here in Darlington County.  Soon there will be no shortage of mullets, wife-beater tees and trucks with #3 written in large font across the back windshield.  Young and old gather for the fastest sport in town and the track is a real beauty.  (Too bad those spectators aren't! Haha!)

But with this race there's no checkered flag, there's no revving the engines, and absolutely no nitro surging through these organic lines.  The race is definitely on for the prize...the prize of... wait for itttttttttttttttt....

 "The Early Tomato"!  

Whoohoo!  Take your victory lap, Le Farm!

But why? Why the rush?

I ask why mainly because I am having the argument with myself and feeling the unmistakeable tension to get that first one to market as soon as possible.  Or, maybe just see that first beautiful little yellow flower to know there's some hope? It could be a hint of post traumatic stress in remembering last year's fiasco that is causing all this.

Last summer, market-goers kept asking week after week, "When will you have your heirloom tomatoes?"  "Won't be long!", I'd say, knowing full well I had no actual tomatoes, only a few blooms due to torrential rains that flooded my fields, drowning in one foot of standing water for two solid weeks.  Why, oh why did I have to be that engaging farmer that sells, sells, sells so customers will keep coming back by promising them the treat of juicy, tasty heirlooms? No matter what I did to try to revive my tomato plants, they never rebounded and I wound up with just a few scrawny tomatoes that I was too embarrassed to sell. 

I have learned that there is an art to delivering a bad message when it comes to customer service.  When it was apparent that I would never have juicy, tasty heirlooms, I just told the truth about the rain rotting them and without skipping a beat said..."But, just wait! Next year I will have beautiful heirloom tomatoes!"

Oh, the pressure...

...Start your engines.